My trip back home. Dedicated to Anthony Bourdain

This has been the first, and the last time I saw Anthony Bourdain alive…

JFK airport in New York was as busy as usual, even at 10 pm on Thursday night. This night on May 17th of 2018, we were going home. I got married two years ago, and my wife and I decided to go back home to Ukraine to visit the family and old friends as well as have some fun out there and travel around Europe. I hadn’t been home for ten years at that time, so I was super excited and, at the same time, a bit nervous about going back. A lot has changed since I was gone. Two nationwide revolutions happened in the country, three presidents changed seats, the annexation of Crimea, and the war in the East of Ukraine, just to mention a few. I was planning this trip for a while but never had a chance to do it. Finally, we were on our way.

We’ve turned in our luggage and, with two small carry-on bags, were roaming the airport searching for a place to kill the next three hours before our flight and, of course, the place where we could get a drink. We passed a few different cafes, which either didn’t look attractive enough or served something we wanted to eat. 

“This one looks good and has a bar too.” Said I to my wife as we were walking by another café.

“Yeah, do you want to go there?”

“Sure, let’s see what they have on the menu.”

The place was crowded as most of the places in New York. This one was packed, and there was a short line of people waiting to get in. The waiters were running around serving food and drinks, wiping down the tables after people who left and setting them up for new customers. We grabbed menus at the front desk and looked inside. There were some soups and salads, and burgers with fries and sandwiches, and various drinks available.

“I’ll have a burger and a beer for myself. What would you like, honey?” I asked my wife.

“I’ll have a salad and a mojito,” said my wife.

“Sounds good. Let’s get in line. It seems to be moving fast.”

“Ok.” Said my wife, as we left menus at the front desk and got in the line. We had a little less than three hours before our flight home. We were hungry and happy.

…2018 was a bad year. This trip out to Ukraine was really the only highlight and the most exciting moment, the rest of 2018 was just struggling and trying to make ends meet. I have lost two full-time jobs back in 2017, which lead me to 2018 fully unemployed and emotionally broken and financially desperate. That was a moment of truth in my life. I was young and angry at the world and social establishments, and all that horseshit that dominated my life and made me a slave to the system. I thought that corporate life was not for me anymore. I was an outcast. I couldn’t get myself together and focus and work well with other people. Fuck people. Why did everybody annoy me so much? Why did I always feel like I had to adjust to meet some criteria or someone else’s expectations? Why I never had an opportunity to focus on things that mattered to me the most?  I needed to make up my mind and try to do something that would bring me joy and help me become happy and fulfilled instead of miserable, frustrated, and always stressed the fuck out of my mind. So, that was it for me, and my relationship with a corporate world ‘slash’ career-building pursuit. 

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My Iggy Pop Experience

That morning I was driving to work happy. There indeed was a smile on my face, and some weird naïve internal happiness was coming from the deep down of my poor little soul. I felt like life was good, even when it really wasn’t, and I was just fucking happy like a child is happy. This wasn’t an average morning, and my mood on an ordinary morning while driving to work is rather pissed. Iggy Pop played in my car, “I am a passenger, and I ride, and I ride…” blasted from my speakers as I’ve was driving into the morning madness of work and school traffic and all those poor schmucks who were out there just like me, early in the morning trying to make it happen for them. I didn’t care for them, I barely cared for myself. But I was trying to make it. 

I was a poor fucking immigrant who somehow ended up working for a company that I despised for everything they did, everything they stood for, and I hated all those fuckers I had to face every day in the office. The reason I was happy that morning was that Iggy Pop was in town, and I was going to see his concert later that day in downtown Philly. The one and only, the mean and cool, the Godfather of Punk, Iggy fucking Pop, was on tour with his new band, new music “Post Pop Depression,” and I would never miss the chance to see that show. It was a great fucking day for me at once, and I still recall that great feeling four years later. 

I’ve listened to Iggy Pop’s music all day long, at the gym in the morning, and at work in the office while working. Even listening to his music made me feel different, made me feel like I don’t give a fuck, made me feel like all the lost souls feel than they find themselves desperate and misunderstood. It was a Friday, the fucking long-time coming Friday of April 15, 2016. I usually didn’t have too much work to do on Fridays, but that one was pretty fucking occupied. I didn’t mind. I had plans for the night, I had a concert to go to and needed the time to pass by as fast as possible. 

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